The Face of the Enemy
by The Black Sluggard
Summary: Peter hadn't spoken to his brother in months, silence the best forgiveness he could offer. It wasn't until Nathan sent him a desperate plea for help that Peter realized he really should have been paying better attention... AU-Post "An Invisible Thread"


AN: I'm a big fan of the whole Sylar-as-Nathan idea. I even started a community collecting stories of that theme. I thought I'd take the time to write my own, though with the new season already started, I'm a little late in the game. This story doesn't take any of the new season into account, taking place some time after "An Invisible Thread", but outside the continuity of the fourth season, so is therefore AU.

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**1. "DONT PANIC"**

It was six in the evening when Peter finally arrived home at his apartment on the Lower East Side.

Under normal circumstances, he wouldn't have been getting off of his shift for another two hours, but he'd managed to beg his supervisor to let him go for the night, claiming a family emergency as his excuse. He could only assume that was the truth. Sitting idle in the back of a cab as he made his nervous way home, Peter had had plenty of time to wonder. What on Earth was so urgent that Nathan had the need to talk about it right _now_? And why couldn't they discuss it over the phone?

"**I NEED YOUR HELP**" had been the first text sent to him that afternoon from his brother's phone. "**PLEASE**" had come next, several minutes afterward when he failed to reply. Peter had caved, finally, and tried to call his brother. The phone had rung seven times before being turned over to voicemail. He'd tried two more times before giving up, a growing sense of unease brewing in his stomach. Two minutes after the third call, he received another message.

"**NOT ON THE PHONE. YOUR PLACE.**"

The message sent a cold thrill of worry up his spine. Peter's only choice had been to send his own message back, assuring his brother that he was on his way.

By the time he reached his building, that worry had matured into fear, coursing metallic through his limbs. Bright, hot prickles cascaded through his legs as he took each step, numbing his fingers as he fumbled with his keys. Unsure what to expect, he opened the door with a slow apprehension, the sound of the key in the lock enormous in his ears.

Flicking on the lights, his breath caught briefly in his throat. To all appearances, his apartment was empty.

"Nathan?"

He let the door swing shut behind him. Once the sound dissipated, all that was left were the steady, soft sounds of the clock over the sink, and his own nervous breathing.

"Nate?"

Born into the waiting silence, the shrill sound of his phone made him jump. His hand was shaking as he pulled it from his pocket, flipping it open to view the screen.

"**DONT PANIC. PROMISE.**"

The emotionless letters seemed to hold a startling amount of desperation. Still shaken, Peter's mind was singing with confusion.

"I promise, just…" Peter paused, running an apprehensive hand over his face. "Just _please_, talk to me."

A subtle noise called his attention to the door beyond the kitchen. He felt the hair rise on his neck. The shadow which stood in the doorway was tall, solid, and familiar. Peter felt a numbing relief as some of the tension drained out of his gut. That relief was rather short lived, unfortunately, as the figure finally stepped into view.

Fear clenched at Peter's stomach like the tightening coils of a snake as the gloom resolved itself into not Nathan's well-known features, but Sylar's.

The white shirt the killer wore seemed almost to glow against the darkness of the room behind him. He stood with his arms hanging loosely at his sides, his expression neutral, expectant, as though waiting for a reaction. His hands were empty, Peter noted dully, distantly, though he knew that Sylar would never need a weapon. He also noted, with a shock like touching a naked wire, that the man wore his brother's Annapolis ring. All at once, Peter found all the fear inside of him metabolized into hot, bright rage.

As Sylar took his first step toward him, Peter acted.

Surprise had to have been on his side, or luck, or else he'd never have been able to pin Sylar against the wall. His palm was slick with sweat where he gripped the killer's neck. His dark eyes looked into Peter's, wide, startled. Despite his tightening fingers, Sylar drew a difficult breath, fighting to choke words out from clenched teeth and a constricted throat.

"You—said you—wouldn't panic."


End file.
